Tag Archives: Dreams

Dropping in to say hello, world. To let you know I’m well. And that the writing goes well, too. Most days.

There are lesser days, though, when nothing goes right, when I erase more than I write, and wonder why I think I can deliver this story. On those days, I’m not so well. Because the well runs dry.

Have you ever wondered how authors of other centuries wrote such beautiful stories with paper and quill and ink wells?

Writing should be easier today. Thanks to digital keystrokes. And tools like cut and paste. And no messy carbons. And no need to blot.

But no. It’s not easy. No, it’s not.

Not. Notty. Knotty. Now, there’s a word. There’s so much story in my memory that, too often, it becomes KNOTTY. I don’t know which thread to pull, first. I pull one. Then, put it back. Another. Nope. Not than one, either. God help me untangle the nots.

I’m learning to back away on ‘lesser’ days. To leave the blank screen and go outside for fresh air. What is it about a blank screen that causes words to die? And what is about being outside in the garden that invites words to come? Complete sentences, mind you. One pretty line after another. Ones I’ve never thought before. Ones that feel so right I rush back in to preserve them. Lest I forget.

My ghostly grandfather, who plays a prominent role in ‘my’ story, must be worried about something. He’s been dropping into my dreams the last two weeks. A few nights ago, he told me I needed to season the story a little. Then, handing me what looked like an ordinary salt shaker — he told me to “just shake some of “this” on it.” That “it” would help my stories sort themselves out. “Just like cream rinse helps tangled hair.”

Instead, wrapped in my own private world, I’m focused on my unloaded dreams — where is that new dream journal? Before I can find the missing journal, I look out the back door to instead find a red-orange horizon resting under dark blue canvas resting under a striped double ribbon of true orange against true blue. The ribbon fades and swirls until it’s topped with Dreamsicle Orange. I devour this rare and lovely morning treat. Soon, the rising sun will melt its beauty.

Dreams melt away just as quickly. If I don’t record my dreams on paper in those first waking-up minutes, they slip back to wherever dreams live, buried deep under the more comfining thoughts of everyday life. So most days, even before I get out of bed, I grab my journal to record my freshly minted dreams. Weighting the strange disjointed images with words keeps dreams alive, so that I can ponder the images and messages under daylight.

What do our dreams tell us? Why am I investing part of Lenten morning devotion towards dream work? Oh, I have my reasons — three good ones, in fact.

The first is that my spiritual director invited me to take a look at my dreams for answers I’ve been seeking.

Then there’s this quote I ran across in a book I’m reading — Clyde H. Reid’s Dreams — Discovering Your Inner Teacher — that’s part of my spiritual direction coursework:

“Our dreams can show us who we are. In fact, they can sometimes show us ourselves unmercifully. If we really want to know ourselves in the deepest ways, we need to record and study our dreams carefully.”

Reading Reid’s words reminded me of a final reason, an invitation I heard from Pulitzer prize-winning author, Marilynne Robinson, a couple of years back, when she was here in Oklahoma to speak at one of our local universities. “Descend into self to write– discover your primary self — the beautiful, the true; it’s preparation for writing words worth saying.”

Though Reid’s book assures that dreams are not terribly hard to interpret — as long as we remember and record them in a sufficient level of detail — the hard part is remembering them. Every night I go to sleep asking God to help me remember. About half of the time I do . And oh, as I spill out dreams on paper, have I noticed some familiar faces — Ms. Perfect and Ms. Workaholic and Ms. Low Self-esteem — while comically wrestling with concerns that consume my waking hours.

My dreams are like an old Hollywood movie that jerks along with missing frames and little plot. Sitting in a darkened theater, I watch my dreams play out. I do not direct the scenes in which I am both actor and audience. Instead, my dream spins off the reel unfiltered, a poor sort of improvisational comedy. One scene leads to another — personal worlds collide — past, present and future merge and swirl as the dead and alive keep each other company.

Dreams are a brave new world of unedited truth. But under the dreams and under the truth, I believe, is a God that lies at the horizon between humus earth and the heavens, a God whose red hot love waits to burn up all the lies, known and unknown, that have become part of who I believe I am — but am not. Somewhere in my dreams, waits a God with the keys of true blue to set me free… … so that I can soar with childish abandon and joy that comes from keeping company with Dreamsicles.

There is rummaging in the kitchen. The sound of water hums through the pipe and gushes out the faucet; an electric tea kettle is being filled for my husband’s morning tea. Cabinet doors open and out comes a thermal mug with the red Dow Chemical diamond logo on it.

I no longer remember how we came by these mugs. Yet, we have three, exactly alike. Perhaps like other red diamond stuff accumulated over the last thirty-two years, these mugs were a recognition award. However they came to us, this trinity of stainless steel mugs work together to become my husband’s sacred vessel for tea.

As the water begins to boil, he retrieves a tin of green tea; his fondness of this pale tea grew out of frequent travels to Asia. He pinches together a few loose leaves and carefully tosses them into the bottom of the mug. Soon the boiling water will flood the cup and leaves will swell.

The tea will steep as I stir from sleep.

My husband’s early morning tea ritual is my everyday wake-up call. The sounds of water boiling in the tea kettle climb the stairs to nudge me from sleep. I slowly stretch my legs to dislodge the stiffness from my knees, a sure sign of age creeping upon me.

The subtle action dislodges more than intended; my three young and exuberant canine companions bound up on all four legs. Instantly awake, they stretch and yawn while moving themselves in range for a few morning pets. I open my eyes to find our standard poodle Max staring up at me with hungry and hopeful eyes. To encourage me awake, and maybe even to express his undying love, Max quickly plants both feet on the bed and leans in for a sloppy French kiss. Dulled by sleep and slower reflexes, I dive for the covers but Max is too fast. That poodle boy shakes this canine mom from her dream world every time.

What had I been dreaming? It’s hard to remember, though sometimes, if I ask myself the question while still drowsy, I can recall enough to make me smile. But with three hungry dogs and a full day of no plans ahead, I’ve no time to dawdle now — it’s time to turn my back on my bed and my dreams and wake up to everyday life. A new day is ready to be born and I must go deliver it.

Thus, my labor begins.

“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? — every, every minute?”